I won't watch you burn
by JuliaPenn
Summary: Basically, this is my first story where I am completely up to date on the topic I'm writing about. This story follows Kripke's current plot. Dean is having trouble accepting Sam's death. Castiel tries to help him. Dean doesn't want the help. DESTIEL slash


**Yes, I know. Bad, bad me, writing another fanfic, while your first one isn't finished. Don't worry, I promise to get them both done. And no, I don't own any of these characters. Well, I own Harvey. Sort of. Warning: Dean cusses a lot while he's drunk.**

Dean slammed his cup on the counter. "More," he grunted at the bartender, who reluctantly poured him another glass. Dean drained this as well, and then gestured that he wanted another refill. He'd already drunk the bar half-dry.

The guy hesitated, noting that Dean was already swaying on his stool. "I don't know," he said slowly, holding back the bottle. "You look like you've had enough."

Dean fixed him with an evil glare that didn't quite work, because he was seeing double, and couldn't quite figure out which bartender to focus on. Not that he'd be able to focus anyway. "Shut the fuck up," he slurred, "and pour the damn beer."

A couple of guys some seats down snickered. "Come on, Harvey, let the idiot get trashed! It'll be fun to watch!" one of them called.

Dean stood up and spread his arms wide, as if inviting a challenge, but he stumbled backwards. "Any of you sons of bitches wanna start something?" he hiccoughed.

"You're not worth it," the guy who first spoke sneered.

Dean pointed at him, with a little trouble getting his hand to work right. "You - you remind me of my brother," he said, and if all tall guys looked alike, the guy might have borne some resemblance to Sammy. Tears wet Dean's bloodshot eyes. "My brother _died _to save some fucktards like _you._ We saved the whole fucking world!" he yelled.

"Great, a vet," one of the group whispered.

"Listen, I meant no disrespect - " the first guy started, but Dean was already in their faces.

"You're the ones who weren't worth it!" he yelled, swinging and catching one of their faces with his fist.

Soon, he was in an all-out brawl, punching and kicking and scratching. Finally, the bartender had had enough. He came over with a beer bottle behind Dean and smashed it over his head. Dean dropped to the floor.

"Ain't no place here for troublemakers," the tender snarled at Dean's unresponsive body, dumping him unceremoniously in the alley outside the bar.

"Don'tcha think we should at least make sure he's awake, Harvey?" someone said, a little pity in his voice. "Him being in the war and all."

"Governemnt should keep a watch on their own damn soldiers," Harvey spat, but he splashed a bucket of ice water on to Dean's prone form, staying long enough to see Dean cough and waken. "Don't come back here," he warned, and then the door was closed.

Dean was on all fours, leaning his forehead against the ground, feeling the icy water drip down from his hair to his nose to the dirt, mixing with blood from various scrapes. In his drunken state, he barely noticed them.

He crawled over to the alley wall, and leaned his head to look up at the skies, where rain was just beginning to drizzle down. "It wasn't worth it," he whispered to the drops stinging in his cuts. "I should never have let him go. It should have been me. Why Sam?" he asked no one in a tortured whisper, genuine confusion blending with his hurt and pain. "Why?" he cried out to the darkened alley, this plaintive plea more heartwrenching than all of his ranting.

An immeasurable distance away, an angel's head shot up.

Castiel was meeting with a group of angels who now ranked lower than he did. It had been his job to bring order to the chaos that was once named heaven, and that was what he was trying to do. In the week since he'd been reinstated to the garrison, the only thing he'd been able to accomplish was to get together a council of angels, made up of seniors who shouldn't be slighted and young ones who'd been most loyal.

Now they were arguing over who got how much power. It reminded Castiel of children. None of these angels had ever been down on Earth, fighting. None of them knew what it was to doubt and fear. None of them really deserved to be on the council, but the sad thing was, they were the most qualified from the entire garrison. It made him ashamed to think that he'd once been so proud to serve under creatures such as these, who were know squabbling like overgrown chickens. Castiel was exasperated with it all, but he was too aware of his position to actually put his head down on the table and moan.

Still, when he heard the call for help, his head lifted and he became immediately alert. His blue eyes went wide, looking around. There was only one person he was so attuned to that he'd be able to hear him when he wasn't specifically listening. Castiel slid his golden chair - more of a throne, really - back from the ornate ivory and gold meeting table.

"Excuse me," he said politely but firmly. "There's somewhere I need to be."

The less tactful of the angelic gathering gaped like fish. "But," one sputtered, "the issue is unresolved!"

Annoyed, Castiel snapped his fingers. Anna, his second in command who'd been brought back the same as he had, appeared. "Anna," he told her, "I have to go. Make sure each of them," he gestured to the circle, "maintains an even share of heaven's power."

Anna nodded, but one of the angels whined, "But some of us are more deserving - "

Castiel glared at that one, and he stopped immediately, cowed by the spreading outline of Cas's immense wigns behind him. "I said," Castiel repeated softly, dangerously. "An _equal share._"

The next instant he was standing in a filthy alley on Earth, heart pounding, looking desperately around for Dean, who's cry for help had been as clear to him as the sound of his own heartbeat. He saw the Hunter's body slumped against the wall. He bent beside him and tilted up Dean's face, breath halting in his throat when he caught sight of the patchwork and bruises. "Oh, Dean," he whispered sadly. "What's happened to you?"

Cas stepped briefly into the bar to ask directions to the nearest motel. Then he tenderly lifted up Dean and had him there in the moment it took to think of the name - "Deep Sleep Rooms". He carried Dean in his arms to the front desk and didn't put him down even as he fished out the credit card Dean had once given to him. "Please," he told the clerk. "No questions. One room."

She cracked her gum and looked at him as if she'd seen it all before, handing him the key and pointing out where he needed to go. He nodded in thanks and carried Dean until he got to the bed where he lay him gently down.

He surveyed the damage for a moment. It hurt him to see the only human, only thing in existence he'd ever come to care about besides his Father, hurting like this. Dean was in obvious anguish, by the looks of his beaten face and the smell of alcohol coming off him in waves. "Dean," he whispered in muffled sorrow, the only thing he seemed able to say.

Silently, he touched a hand to the bloodied cheek. In a matter of seconds, the cuts and bruises were healed and gone, visible no longer. He was stil a mess, though. Castiel carefully brought him to the bathroom, trying not to wake him. It was a testimony to how much alcohol he must of taken in that Dean didn't even stir when Castiel accidentally knocked him against the edge of the tub. He stripped Dean of his shoes, socks, jacket and shirt. Dean was now slumped in the tub, blood dripping down him. It made Cas's heart ache to see such a pitiful sight.

He wet a washcloth and gently wiped the blood off the so familiar face, now twisted by loss and grief. He could hear his pulse in his ears as he felt Dean's body beneath his hands, and he had to remind himself that he was here to tend to Dean, nothing else. When both he and the clothes were as clean as Cas could get them, he placed Dean on the hopefully comfortable bed. He'd healed what he could of Dean's physical hurts, but he knew he'd be aching in the morning. Castiel hoped it wouldn't be too bad and wished he could stay with him, to help make it better. He left the clothes folded on a chair, with the key on top.

Before he left, he stood besides Dean's sleeping body, now looking much more peaceful than when Cas had first found it. He gave a last couple of tucks of the covers and then grasped Dean's hand in his own. "I'm...I'm sorry," he whispered, although he knew he wouldn't be heard, and brought Dean's hand to his lips. Guilt and shame prevented him from placing an equally tender kiss on Dean's face, although it was all he could to to keep himself from kissing that furrowed forehead to try and smooth out the worry. Castiel placed some of the blame for Dean's grief on himself, and the weight of it wouldn't be easily discarded.

Then it was back to his duty, leaving no evidence of himself except a twenty dollar bill with lady at the front desk and the instructions to not, under any circumstances, let Dean know who'd rescued him.


End file.
